Hijacking Jack
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
4,272
Reviews:
51
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
4,272
Reviews:
51
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited
Jacking Jack
Disclaimer: All characters, plot, and random phrases belong to me, me, me.
Warning: Reader discretion is advised. This piece of fiction will have homosexual pairings i.e. pretty boys who are in relationships with other pretty boys and doing things that only us yaoi fangirls can only dream about. Homophobes have been warned; flames will be used for toasting marshmallows.
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Chapter One
Guns for Hire
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Jack stands, sweat trickling down the length of his spine. The ground beneath his feet was almost scolding, the air hot and heavy as he dragged it into his heaving lungs, and the smell of fire and brimstone threatened to overpower him.
He stood tall and squared his shoulders, looking determinedly at his opponent. Eyebrows knitted over narrowed green eyes and he took a step forward.
He was ready.
This was it. This was where everything hung in the balance of his victory. His blood thrummed in his veins and he drew back his fist to make the first lethal strike.
“Oh, for fuck sake Jack, you’re only cleaning the insides of the oven, not undergoing ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Stop being a prissy drama queen and get it over with.”
Shocked by the loud voice, Jack was forcefully dragged from his fantasy. He stood in the middle of the kitchen in a custom made red apron that said in bright yellow letters ‘I fought the stove, and the stove won’. Very apt, Jack thought. It was going to be a long and tedious battle, probably ending with Jack passed out cold on the floor.
“The oven is a tough edmisery, Danny. One cannot be too careful in circumstances such as these.” Jack began to roll up the sleeves of his black hoody past his elbows and brandished a cloth and some oven cleaner like weapons.
Danny stood in his t-shirt and boxers and stared at him with bleary-eyes caused by sleep. He was Jack’s flatmate, a guy who really knew how to party. “Dude, you really need to get out more. I worry for your sanity.” He let out a noisy yawn as he scratched himself and headed for the fridge to snoop around for something to eat.
Jack gave him an arch look. “By ‘you should get out more’ you mean I should be like you and drink myself into a stupor, gamble all of my money away and sleep with every girl in sight?” Jack said sweetly.
Danny turned back to him with a cold chicken leg hanging out of his mouth. “Yeah, pretty much.” His tone was unrepentant and brazen.
Jack huffed and turned back to the oven. The thing was openly leering at him and Jack stuck his tongue out at it. “Thanks, but no thanks. I think I will pass on your generous offer.” He slid to his knees and opened the oven door. He was met with months of grease and unmentionable gunk that made him want to throw up.
Danny shrugged as he kicked the fridge’s door closed with his foot. “Your loss, man.” In his arms he had another chicken leg, leftover Cantonese takeout and a bottle of orange juice. “I’m out tonight with some friends. Were heading for the casinos in London, hoping to score some serious dough. I lost a lot of money last week. What do you say?”
Jack’s head reappeared from within the bowels of the oven as he had started scrubbing the sides down. “You’re going to head for London? Five hours away?”
Danny stared at him with a ‘duh’ expression. “Well, yeah. They have the best casinos.”
Jack just shook his head. “Never mind. I’m all good for staying here. I was never much of a lucky gambler. Go ahead and knock yourself out.”
Danny gave him a grin that was all teeth. “I plan to.” He turned around and headed for his bedroom.
Jack let out a breath, which blew his sandy coloured hair out of his eyes. “Well,” he said as he turned back to the oven. “It looks like it’s just you an me. En guard.”
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Two Days Later...
For what seemed like the hundredth time in an hour, Gabe stared down at the little grainy Polaroid clutched in his hand. It was of a man in his early twenties who looked like he was shopping at some grocery store. He had sandy coloured hair that was a little too long and it fell in front of his eyes, obscuring their colour. He was wearing a too-big sweater that covered his hands and in a way it was a little ridiculous. If Gabe had passed him on the street, it would have brought a smile to his face. He was a boy in a man’s body, all awkward gestures and unconscious grace.
“Are you sure he’s the one?” He asked into the mouthpiece of his mobile. He was sitting in his living room, the little black envelope he received from a runner torn on the table with a sheet of crisp white paper with an address on it.
“Of course he is. Mr. Guiseppe’s money was wired to his accounts. His signature was used at the betting pool in the London Casino. He lost all of it in a single night. You have to hand it to him. The guy has some nerve. Taking the money and then doing a runner without paying it back. Just because he lives in Plymouth doesn't mean he can get away with it.” The static line did not eliminate the impressed astonishment in Ashley’s voice.
“To cross Mr. Guiseppe smacks more of stupidity than nerve.” Gabe mused as he ran a finger over the photograph. “You should know, Ashley. You’ve been Mr. Guiseppe’s gofer for years now.” He considered the photograph for a moment. “He doesn’t look like your usual type of gambler. He looks like he belonged in a dusty library.”
“Perhaps he has taken it up as a new hobby. An expensive one, mind. He has to be an amateur, considering he lost £12,000 in one night.” The gofer’s laugh grated on Gabe’s hearing and pulls the phone away from his ear.
“So, what does Mr. Guiseppe want me to do for the money he’s paying me?” Gabe asked as he slid the photograph onto the table and picked up the paper with the address on it.
“You have the guy’s address to go with his picture?”
“Yeah. I have the address here with me.” Gabe read the lines of the address for the first time. Earl Hampton Court, Apartment 6B, Plymouth. He had heard of Earl Hampton Court.
It was an apartment complex in the nicer part of the city. He had been there a couple of times, passing through on other such errands for men like Mr. Guiseppe who could pay him. He had wondered about the people who lived in such places. He had wondered what it would be like to have a home there, to be an upstanding citizen and leave his life behind.
Again, Gabe found himself surprised of this Jack Fielding. To get caught up with a loan shark such as Mr. Guiseppe just didn’t fit with his description. Gabe prided himself on being able to read people like open books. But this man, this Jack Fielding, was an enigma to him. He must have been pretty damn desperate for the money to borrow it.
“Mr. Guiseppe wants you to get his money back for him. If he doesn’t have it on him, then Mr. Guiseppe wants you to bring him back to London so they can make…alternative arrangements.” Gabe didn’t need to ask what ‘alternative arrangements’ mean. ‘Alternative arrangements’ meant many things from sorting out a loan with instalments with interest that would make you cry like a girl. That or beat the money out of you.
“As Mr. Guiseppe wishes.” Gabe agreed easily. “I will meet with this Jack Fielding tonight and if he can’t pay, I will bring him with me when I collect my money.”
“Alright, man. See you on the other side.” With that, they parted on the phone. Gabe threw his mobile on the seat next to him and carded his hand through his black hair. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was already three thirty in the afternoon. If he wanted to get to his destination before nightfall, he would have to leave now.
Taking one last look at the photograph, he stood up and collected his keys, mobile and coat before heading out of the front door.
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Inside apartment 6B, Jack liked to keep a well-organised and routine life, with everything from his closet to his daily schedule ordered perfectly to fit together like puzzle pieces. His closet consisted a multitude of short sleeved button-down oxfords and smart dress-slacks that hung neatly on coat hangers. There were impressions in the cushion of the sofa from where Jack sat to watch TV shows such as mythbusters and history documentaries on the Egyptian Pharaohs. There were impressions on the linoleum beneath the chair at the kitchen table that he sits at for every meal.
The apartment is spotless after his marathon cleaning spree and the mop and bucket were still left out by the kitchen door to dry. Later, after he had eaten his microwavable meal of spaghetti bolougnaise and frozen garlic bread, he will put it away and then got to bed to read the last couple of chapters of The Mocking Bird before falling to sleep.
Some may find that terribly boring. To Jack, he didn’t know any different. This was his life and he was content with it.
Setting his food on the table, Jack sat in his chair and dragged the newspaper in front of him so he could read and eat at the same time. It filled up the silence, at least. The first bite of spaghetti was barely down his throat when the doorbell rang, upsetting the quiet of the apartment.
Jack froze in place, fork hovering in mid-air. The door bell never usually rang- those few he called friends knew to knock instead of ringing. Whoever was at the door was not a friend of his. Maybe they were calling for Danny?
“Yes?” He called, ready to yell at them to bugger off, Danny had left days ago for the casinos.
“I’m looking for a Jack Fielding. Does he live here?” The deep tenor was one he didn’t recognise and his eyebrows drew together.
“He does.” Jack called back as he walked to the front door and unbolted it. As he swung the door open, he came fact to face with the black barrel of a gun that pointed unwaveringly at the middle of his forehead. “Um.”
Funny thing, that had to be the first time Jack had ever been at a loss for words.
“Hello, Jack Fielding. Mind if I come in?”
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To Be Continued…
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know, I promise myself with every new piece of writing that I will do something that doesn’t tip the scales into drama but I can’t seem to help it. It is just too good to write.
Feed(my muses)back please.
Warning: Reader discretion is advised. This piece of fiction will have homosexual pairings i.e. pretty boys who are in relationships with other pretty boys and doing things that only us yaoi fangirls can only dream about. Homophobes have been warned; flames will be used for toasting marshmallows.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter One
Guns for Hire
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jack stands, sweat trickling down the length of his spine. The ground beneath his feet was almost scolding, the air hot and heavy as he dragged it into his heaving lungs, and the smell of fire and brimstone threatened to overpower him.
He stood tall and squared his shoulders, looking determinedly at his opponent. Eyebrows knitted over narrowed green eyes and he took a step forward.
He was ready.
This was it. This was where everything hung in the balance of his victory. His blood thrummed in his veins and he drew back his fist to make the first lethal strike.
“Oh, for fuck sake Jack, you’re only cleaning the insides of the oven, not undergoing ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Stop being a prissy drama queen and get it over with.”
Shocked by the loud voice, Jack was forcefully dragged from his fantasy. He stood in the middle of the kitchen in a custom made red apron that said in bright yellow letters ‘I fought the stove, and the stove won’. Very apt, Jack thought. It was going to be a long and tedious battle, probably ending with Jack passed out cold on the floor.
“The oven is a tough edmisery, Danny. One cannot be too careful in circumstances such as these.” Jack began to roll up the sleeves of his black hoody past his elbows and brandished a cloth and some oven cleaner like weapons.
Danny stood in his t-shirt and boxers and stared at him with bleary-eyes caused by sleep. He was Jack’s flatmate, a guy who really knew how to party. “Dude, you really need to get out more. I worry for your sanity.” He let out a noisy yawn as he scratched himself and headed for the fridge to snoop around for something to eat.
Jack gave him an arch look. “By ‘you should get out more’ you mean I should be like you and drink myself into a stupor, gamble all of my money away and sleep with every girl in sight?” Jack said sweetly.
Danny turned back to him with a cold chicken leg hanging out of his mouth. “Yeah, pretty much.” His tone was unrepentant and brazen.
Jack huffed and turned back to the oven. The thing was openly leering at him and Jack stuck his tongue out at it. “Thanks, but no thanks. I think I will pass on your generous offer.” He slid to his knees and opened the oven door. He was met with months of grease and unmentionable gunk that made him want to throw up.
Danny shrugged as he kicked the fridge’s door closed with his foot. “Your loss, man.” In his arms he had another chicken leg, leftover Cantonese takeout and a bottle of orange juice. “I’m out tonight with some friends. Were heading for the casinos in London, hoping to score some serious dough. I lost a lot of money last week. What do you say?”
Jack’s head reappeared from within the bowels of the oven as he had started scrubbing the sides down. “You’re going to head for London? Five hours away?”
Danny stared at him with a ‘duh’ expression. “Well, yeah. They have the best casinos.”
Jack just shook his head. “Never mind. I’m all good for staying here. I was never much of a lucky gambler. Go ahead and knock yourself out.”
Danny gave him a grin that was all teeth. “I plan to.” He turned around and headed for his bedroom.
Jack let out a breath, which blew his sandy coloured hair out of his eyes. “Well,” he said as he turned back to the oven. “It looks like it’s just you an me. En guard.”
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Two Days Later...
For what seemed like the hundredth time in an hour, Gabe stared down at the little grainy Polaroid clutched in his hand. It was of a man in his early twenties who looked like he was shopping at some grocery store. He had sandy coloured hair that was a little too long and it fell in front of his eyes, obscuring their colour. He was wearing a too-big sweater that covered his hands and in a way it was a little ridiculous. If Gabe had passed him on the street, it would have brought a smile to his face. He was a boy in a man’s body, all awkward gestures and unconscious grace.
“Are you sure he’s the one?” He asked into the mouthpiece of his mobile. He was sitting in his living room, the little black envelope he received from a runner torn on the table with a sheet of crisp white paper with an address on it.
“Of course he is. Mr. Guiseppe’s money was wired to his accounts. His signature was used at the betting pool in the London Casino. He lost all of it in a single night. You have to hand it to him. The guy has some nerve. Taking the money and then doing a runner without paying it back. Just because he lives in Plymouth doesn't mean he can get away with it.” The static line did not eliminate the impressed astonishment in Ashley’s voice.
“To cross Mr. Guiseppe smacks more of stupidity than nerve.” Gabe mused as he ran a finger over the photograph. “You should know, Ashley. You’ve been Mr. Guiseppe’s gofer for years now.” He considered the photograph for a moment. “He doesn’t look like your usual type of gambler. He looks like he belonged in a dusty library.”
“Perhaps he has taken it up as a new hobby. An expensive one, mind. He has to be an amateur, considering he lost £12,000 in one night.” The gofer’s laugh grated on Gabe’s hearing and pulls the phone away from his ear.
“So, what does Mr. Guiseppe want me to do for the money he’s paying me?” Gabe asked as he slid the photograph onto the table and picked up the paper with the address on it.
“You have the guy’s address to go with his picture?”
“Yeah. I have the address here with me.” Gabe read the lines of the address for the first time. Earl Hampton Court, Apartment 6B, Plymouth. He had heard of Earl Hampton Court.
It was an apartment complex in the nicer part of the city. He had been there a couple of times, passing through on other such errands for men like Mr. Guiseppe who could pay him. He had wondered about the people who lived in such places. He had wondered what it would be like to have a home there, to be an upstanding citizen and leave his life behind.
Again, Gabe found himself surprised of this Jack Fielding. To get caught up with a loan shark such as Mr. Guiseppe just didn’t fit with his description. Gabe prided himself on being able to read people like open books. But this man, this Jack Fielding, was an enigma to him. He must have been pretty damn desperate for the money to borrow it.
“Mr. Guiseppe wants you to get his money back for him. If he doesn’t have it on him, then Mr. Guiseppe wants you to bring him back to London so they can make…alternative arrangements.” Gabe didn’t need to ask what ‘alternative arrangements’ mean. ‘Alternative arrangements’ meant many things from sorting out a loan with instalments with interest that would make you cry like a girl. That or beat the money out of you.
“As Mr. Guiseppe wishes.” Gabe agreed easily. “I will meet with this Jack Fielding tonight and if he can’t pay, I will bring him with me when I collect my money.”
“Alright, man. See you on the other side.” With that, they parted on the phone. Gabe threw his mobile on the seat next to him and carded his hand through his black hair. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was already three thirty in the afternoon. If he wanted to get to his destination before nightfall, he would have to leave now.
Taking one last look at the photograph, he stood up and collected his keys, mobile and coat before heading out of the front door.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Inside apartment 6B, Jack liked to keep a well-organised and routine life, with everything from his closet to his daily schedule ordered perfectly to fit together like puzzle pieces. His closet consisted a multitude of short sleeved button-down oxfords and smart dress-slacks that hung neatly on coat hangers. There were impressions in the cushion of the sofa from where Jack sat to watch TV shows such as mythbusters and history documentaries on the Egyptian Pharaohs. There were impressions on the linoleum beneath the chair at the kitchen table that he sits at for every meal.
The apartment is spotless after his marathon cleaning spree and the mop and bucket were still left out by the kitchen door to dry. Later, after he had eaten his microwavable meal of spaghetti bolougnaise and frozen garlic bread, he will put it away and then got to bed to read the last couple of chapters of The Mocking Bird before falling to sleep.
Some may find that terribly boring. To Jack, he didn’t know any different. This was his life and he was content with it.
Setting his food on the table, Jack sat in his chair and dragged the newspaper in front of him so he could read and eat at the same time. It filled up the silence, at least. The first bite of spaghetti was barely down his throat when the doorbell rang, upsetting the quiet of the apartment.
Jack froze in place, fork hovering in mid-air. The door bell never usually rang- those few he called friends knew to knock instead of ringing. Whoever was at the door was not a friend of his. Maybe they were calling for Danny?
“Yes?” He called, ready to yell at them to bugger off, Danny had left days ago for the casinos.
“I’m looking for a Jack Fielding. Does he live here?” The deep tenor was one he didn’t recognise and his eyebrows drew together.
“He does.” Jack called back as he walked to the front door and unbolted it. As he swung the door open, he came fact to face with the black barrel of a gun that pointed unwaveringly at the middle of his forehead. “Um.”
Funny thing, that had to be the first time Jack had ever been at a loss for words.
“Hello, Jack Fielding. Mind if I come in?”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To Be Continued…
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know, I promise myself with every new piece of writing that I will do something that doesn’t tip the scales into drama but I can’t seem to help it. It is just too good to write.
Feed(my muses)back please.